


The X-Files: Enter The Sandman

by Watson (MrWatson)



Series: X-Files: Enter The Sandman [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Comedy, Other, Politcs, x-files
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:06:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7381201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrWatson/pseuds/Watson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Cigarette Smoking Man is back, with eyes on the whitehouse.  If Moulder and Scully stand a chance at stopping his latest scheme they'll need the help of corruption's biggest rival: Bernie Sanders.  Shoot outs, mysterious alien weaponry, and scandals of decades past in this political parody starring our favorite FBI agents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ~Prelude~

The slap of papers as they were dropped onto the desk in front of Agent Fox Mulder broke the silence. Still he stared at the interrogator, refusing to acknowledge them. The plastic cuffs strapping him to his seat cut into his wrists, and the taste of copper pooled in his mouth from a cut on his lip.  
"I'll ask nicely this time." His words were stones dropping heavy from his lips. Agent Mulders's oppressor rounded the desk to be at his side, leaning until their faces were inches apart. "What is the exact nature of your illegal visit to Area 51."  
Moulder nodded. "I'll tell you." He sniffed and leaned back in his chair. "I just thought it was high time for a vacation, y'know. Figured I'd tour the countryside, one with nature an' all that. Maybe glimpse some assholes in their natural habitat."  
Even through swollen eyes Moulder saw the punch coming a mile away. The second, third, and fourth punches came directly after, sending Moulder crashing to the floor. The agent reared up after him with his boot raised. With a crash, the door to the tiny interrogation room fell to pieces, interrupting the beating to come.  
A gunshot, dull and loud cut the musty atmosphere and Moulder's assailant toppled over, body slapping the tiles with a sickening thud. Mulder pushed him self onto his back, chair breaking beneath him. The light of a single fixture glared at him momentarily. His eyes adjusted, and the image of Bernie Sanders, smoking gun in hand, became clear to him.  
" Mr. Mulder," his wispy oice somehow calming. "I hear you want to believe."

Miles away in a very similar room, the cancer man sat shrouded in darkness. The furniture was scarce. A large recliner, and a small television from generations past. A security recording of the events at Area 51 reflected in his pupils. Slowly, lazily the villain reached for a landline on his armrest. His fingers, shaking from countless afflictions, dialed a number he'd never forget.  
It rang once.  
A raspy voice: "what do you want?"  
"Donnie, it's me. How have you been."  
"Cut the crap. I'm a busy man."  
The Cancer Man took a deliberately prolonged puff from his cigarette. "very well. We have an emergency."  
"What, another code red?  
"No". He puffed again at a somehow still full cigarette. "We've had a sighting. The good Colonel."  
Donnie paused. "....I understand." The line went dead.  
The Cancer Man stood slowly and walked to a window, tossing his cigarette and lighting another, "here for another game, Bernie? My pawns are in place"

In Washington, DC Bernie Sanders and agent Moulder rendezvous with Dana scully, who, even in the middle of the night, is dressed in a stylish pantsuit. She shakes the hand of her partners rescuer, and upon hearing his name classically mentions writing an award winning thesis in college on something Mr Sanders did a long time ago. The three heroes walk into the night. Preparing for things to come.

Staring with dull eyes into the empty void of night beyond the window pane, the Cancer Man drew from his cigarette, " and I believe it's your turn.


	2. ~purposefuly untitled~

~~  
Early as it was, Moulder was already dressed when the phone rang that morning. Its high pitched trill cried out amidst the canopy of noise, joining the patter of rain and the low rumbling of automobiles. In truth he had been awake for hours, fully dressed, showered and clean shaven long before the sun peeked out at the city from its nest in the horizon. Today he would begin his work with the elusive Mr. Sanders. The Sandman, the legendary champion working within the government to bring justice. The culmination of fifty years of conspiracy theories were about to unravel. And it all began today.  
Casually, calmly, with coat jacket draped over left shoulder, he answered the call. "Yeah?" His voice was smooth, Fox made sure to sound as disinterested as possible.  
"Moulder, its me." Agent Scully's voice brought urgency, highlighting the nature of her call. Even still her words came smoother and calmer, possibly because she was genuinely disinterested.  
"Are you up yet?  
Fox took a sip from a steaming mug. " I answered the phone, didn't I, Scully?"  
Her low sigh was audible even over the phone.  
"Great, well get dressed. Ill meet you at the office."  
Click. The line was dead. He dropped the phone next to its holster. The day was just beginning and she was bored of him already. His fingers plucked at the knot of his tie, its cheap fabric digging into his neck even through his shirt. It was time for work.  
~ 2014, South Texas~  
Music. Soft and light, spinning in endless pirouettes through the room; a gentle stampede of violins and cymbals rushing 'round his ears. Classical. Stubby fingers pulled a threaded needle through a thin canvas and the man hummed along to the tune. The room was dim, a single bulb hanging by its cord from the ceiling. The light it cast was more of an orange mist falling over the room than true illumination. The violins peaked, reaching from the shoulders of cellos to pinch the ceiling in a climatic trill. Along with the man's humming, the music stopped.  
"Tell me," his voice danced as though still accompanied by music, questioning the cold silhouette in the doorway. "When exactly is your birthday."  
The sly snap of a match pulled across a sulfur strip crackled in response. A coarse perfume filled the room.  
"February? June? No. No. No." Here he chucked, and stopped his stitch work to thread another needle. I peg you as a man born late in the stark winters of January. " more humming.  
"My sign is not.." The visitor paused to release steams of smoke from his nostrils. "Relevant..."  
"No, I'd say. It never is. But I have always had this peculiar, nagging attraction to the zodiac and its signs."  
"I'm aware, Theodore. I was a fan of your early work."  
Theodore laughed without restraint. With excitement he turned and stood from his chair. "Fan? You act as though you were a bystander," he thrust the canvas at the Cancer Man. "And not the player of an intrical role."  
The Cancer Man did not confirm or deny. Just dropped the remains of his past cigarette and moved to light another."  
"Speaking of said work, " his voice curled through a dark cloud. "I am here to call in the favor."  
Theodore tilted his head, back at his table with his needles and thread. "A favor forty years overdue. What did you have in mind?"  
"Mark November. Two years. I don't need you to win." More smoke. "Just run."  
Theodore lifted the needle on his record player, reset the album. Classical strings filled the air once more.  
"This time if you're caught I won't be able to save you."  
Theodore's humming remained uninterrupted as the Cancer Man turned on his heel and slid down the corridor. As he reached the door at the halls end, the villain stopped in his tracks, realizing that the scrap of canvas given to him earlier was still clenched in his hand. Stretching his fingers to let the fabric unfurl, his watery eyes fell upon the pattern. To parallel lines drawn in the pattern of small waves. Aquarius.


	3. ~Rendevouz~

~PRESENT, Washington DC, early morning~  
Two cars, sedans, blue so dark they were black under the struggling light of a sun wrestled by the clouds of last night's rain. Both Moulder and Scully stepped out simultaneously. Sanders stood already, leaning against the hood of his car. His sleeves characteristically too short for his arms, forehead gleaming in the scarce light, white hair as frail as the rest of him trailing the breeze; he cut a fierce form before the city outline.  
"Morning." Fox shouted. He shoved his fists in his pockets, suddenly unsure of how to carry himself in the presence of his hero.  
Sanders pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, tore the tip off with his teeth. A bic lighter in his other hand lit it.  
"I didn't know you smoked , Bernie?" Moulder asked in the true fashion of a twelve year old trying to start conversation with a high school student.  
Bernie Sanders blew a trail of smoke. "Only the good shit." He offered the cigar with a lazy gesture. Fox shook his head.  
"Can...aren't you...can you even smoke?"  
"What?" Bernie shrugged as Scully accepted the cigar and puffed it. "Its kosher."  
"Right, well we've got more important things to talk about,". She exhaled, tobacco perfume blowing from her lips.  
"By now the Cancer Man knows I'm back in the ass-kickin' business. He's called some heavy hitters to back him up. And I'll bet he's got more to come."  
"Sure I get that. So do you think its really wise to participate in tonight's debate?"  
Sanders shook of Moulders question. "I skip tonight and that Son-of-a-bitch will think he got to me. No. I go to that debate, I tear them apart on live T.V. I'll need muscle, though. One eye on the crowd the other on my back. That's you Dana. Bring that sorry excuse for a gun the feds gave you."  
Scully's eyes lit up. "Okay but where does that leave Moulder?"  
Sanders grabbed a stack of files which were leaning against the windshield of his sedan and tossed them to Fox. "You'll be doing what you do best. This is every bit of intel I was able to beat out those punks at area 51. Scour every bit of it. Somewhere in those papers is a clue to finding out what it is."  
Fox shifted nervously through the manila folders. Bewildered, he asked; "what what is?"  
Bernie opened the door to his car. "I'm led to believe 'its' a weapon, alien tech or some bullshit. That's why Cancer Man and his goons are after the whitehouse."  
"I don't understand," Scully conjectured. "How could the two be related?"  
The old man loosed gray tendrils from this nostrils and tossed the butt of his cigar. "Because ever since they found it in the wreckage at Roswell its been tucked away in the Oval Office." With a click he shut his door and was peeling off into the distance, trails of dust filling the sky.

~later that day~  
She had felt his presence for sometime now, standing behind her as she typed away at the keys of her laptop. Leaning, probably, against the doorframe. That sly smile creasing his face. Hell, she could smell him a mile away. A walking Marley perfume sample. What did he want now.  
"Whatever it is, I'm busy. The answer is no."  
She heard a match strike. Smoke filled the room.  
"Too busy for me?"  
His voice, soft as it was, somehow clawed at her like nails on a chalkboard. She shuddered. Yellow nails.  
"That's funny. That's actually Hillary-ous." A dull laugh followed his display of dull humor.  
"I'm here, of course, for that favor you owe me."  
She stopped typing, fingertips wavering over tiny polished letters.  
"I don't owe you anything."  
"Oh? So Monica disposed of herself, did she?"  
Hillary sighed, her shoulders slumped.  
"Don't you remember the good ole days, Hillary? You, me, Bill."  
"Those days are over. I left all that behind long ago."  
"Well at least pay your tab, then. You have one target. His name is Sanders."  
There was a soft thud as his cigarette butt hit the floor. She turned in her chair. The cigarette smoking man was gone


End file.
